


Badass With a Baby

by esama



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Baby Acquisition, Badass With a Baby, Blood and Violence, Character Death, Don't copy to another site, Gen, No beta we die like Desmond SURE DIDN'T, multifandom - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:46:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27760978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esama/pseuds/esama
Summary: Just various drabbles of various badasses with various babies.
Relationships: Badasses & babies
Comments: 547
Kudos: 2030





	1. Ezio and Baby Desmond

**Author's Note:**

> Written under the influence of alcoholic beverages  
> prompted by people on tumblr and also various alcoholic beverages  
> unbetaed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by carverly on tumblr: Ezio and bb!Desmond?

Ezio had expected many things from the Vault under the Vatican – and nothing at all. He hadn't dared to – all he had were fears and worries and a vague sense of threat should the Templars get their way. He had prepared, he had been ready for anything, and he had held within himself a conviction that whatever it was, a god, a weapon, terrible calamity about to be unleashed on the world, _whatever_ it was… he would deal with it accordingly if he only may. And perhaps, die in the attempt.

What he does not expect is an ancient goddess of ancient Romans to step forward, with a bundle wrapped in gold in her arms, and say, "This is Desmond. He has a great task ahead of him – and your task, Prophet, is to see him to it."

"I – what – my lady –" Ezio stammers, but, helpless to do anything else, accepts the burden. It is a child, a newborn small and fragile and deeply asleep, with lines of gold still shimmering on his skin as Minerva passes her hand over his closed eyes.

The goddess smiles and steps back, leaving Ezio holding the child as the light begins to fade. "Care for him," she instructs him. "Protect him. See him into adulthood – when the time comes, he will know what to do."

"Wait – wait!" Ezio cries as he realises she is about to leave him, to fade into the darkness she'd come from. "What is his task – my lady – please!"

Minerva shakes her head, gentle. "Desmond will remain asleep for a day and a night," she says. "So that you can make your escape safely – after that, his safety will be up to you, Ezio."

And then she is gone, leaving Ezio gaping in horror at thin air, still holding the sleeping son of a _goddess_. Sputtering at nothing, Ezio looks down on the infant, whose skin now bears no marks, who looks no different from any other infant he has ever seen, bar from the fact that he is wrapped in cloth spun from what looks like pure gold.

"Desmond," Ezio murmurs, utterly confused, and shifts the burden on one arm, over his bladed bracer, so that he might shift the cloth to see – no, the child wears no cloth, no nappy, under the golden wrap. All he has is the gold, and underneath it only skin and flesh and bones, warm to the touch and utterly vulnerable and fragile under Ezio's calloused touch.

A child, for him – who in their right minds would entrust such a burden on _him_ of all people. He is a killer, he keeps company with murderers, thieves, whores, assassins and cheaters. What does he know of caring for a child? Nothing at all – less than. He hardly knows how to hold the child without putting him at a risk, for his person is covered in weaponry and there is not a soft surface on his armour to rest the child upon. He is made for _death_ , not… not life such as this.

But at the same time. At the end of so many years of strife, of death, of struggle, of pain and loss…

Ezio runs a thumb down a small cheek where a golden light had drawn lines, marvelling the softness of it, and knows, in his heart of hearts, that if he does not do it, he will kill this child as surely as if he put a blade through his chest. His touch is now the only thing keeping the babe alive, his hold the babe's only protection.

"Lord," Ezio whispers, not sure if he's addressing the child or some god above who might be responsible for the confusion his life has so suddenly become. "Should anyone find out…"

A son, a living son of a true goddess. No, it doesn't bear thinking what people would do, should they find out about the babe.

With shaky hands Ezio wraps the golden cloth around the baby more carefully, bundling him up tight and secure. Then, realising that the golden cloth gleams and would surely be noticeable, Ezio detaches his own cape, to wrap around the precious bundle. Still noticeable though it is, it will hide the valuable gleam of the golden cloth, at least. Then, holding the child, holding Desmond, to his chest, Ezio looks up, his heart set, his mind steeling with resolve.

He has to get the babe out of the Vatican – and likely he will have the whole of the Vatican to fight in order to do it. And this might not be what he expected, but he is damn well ready.


	2. Obi-Wan and Baby Anakin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by dream-of-stories on tumblr: Obvious answer is Obi-wan and Anakin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for slavery, injury, blood, and people dying in the background

Obi-Wan doesn't know how he ended up here. Well, he knows – he can count every step of the ludicrous ordeal that had begun with him and his master on yet another diplomatic mission, and which had ended up with him hitchhiking a ride with some pirates, only for them to leave him all but marooned in the middle of nowhere. But how he ended up in middle of shootout on a _slave_ auction on top of the whole sorry ordeal, he isn't sure.

But here he is, covering behind a half collapsed hut while blaster fire goes off all around him, as slaves riot and try and rise up against their masters, and the said masters try to bring order back to their horrible town. His back pressed against the wall and his heart beating like a rapid drum, Obi-Wan breathes in and out and tries to think what to do.

His master would, no doubt, advise first caution and second non-involvement. Ever since Melida/Daan, Obi-Wan had been on something of a short leash when it came down to interplanetary conflicts of right and wrong – which this sad attempt of a slave rebellion would certainly count as. Take no part, help where you can, but take no part – it is not the job of the Jedi to get themselves involved and _invested_ in local politics, not unless invited. On top of that, Obi-Wan is a Jedi stranded on an Outer Rim _slave world_ and should people find out what he is – or worse yet, what he _possesses_ , a unspeakably valuable functional Lightsaber…

He's been lucky not to have been marked down as an escaped slave, as it is, what with his torn robes and stained tabart – he certainly fits the bill, looking like he does.

 _But_ , Obi-Wan agonises, _but the slaves!_ Certainly none of them could have deserved this life, certainly none of them deserved to be shot at, or punished, killed, or whatever it was their masters would do to them once this rebellion would be brought down. They would not get off easy from it, that much is certain – he can _feel_ their desperation in the air. They will succeed in this or they will die – if not in the attempt, then by their own hands immediately after. Do or die – there is no other way.

"My master will _kill me_ ," Obi-Wan mutters – which is irony at it's finest, really, in this situation. He's just about to rise, to step in, to find himself a blaster somewhere in this chaos, and then, hopefully, do his part to end this – when someone crashes into him.

A woman, gasping for breath, clutching with one hand a bundle of ragged cloth pressed to her shoulder – and with the other holding her side, where blood is spilling through her fingers from a fresh blaster wound.

Their eyes meet, and with shaking hands she goes for a make-do knife, taking it out from under her ragged robes. "Don't – don't –" she gasps, wincing.

"No, no, I'm friend, I'm friend, I'm not going to hurt you," Obi-Wan says, holding his hands up, looking her over. "How bad is it?"

The woman eyes him suspiciously and then collapses beside him, her feet digging into the sand. She breathes hard for a moment, swallowing, and then checks her side. Blood immediately spills free-er, with here hand removed. "I don't – I don't know – I was hit, but, I don't know if it hit anything major –" she says, her face twisting with pure, horrible misery, and in that moment the bundle in her arms moves and lets out a whine.

A child, she's holding an infant.

Obi-Wan moves to check her wound carefully – he doesn't have anything to fix it, but maybe it's not bad… The woman winces and then concentrates onto her child, leaving the wound to Obi-Wan, who checks it front and back. "A weak hit – it didn't go through – ricochet maybe," he reports. "I can't tell how deep it went, I'm sorry."

It could be she'd be fine with stitches and bacta, it might be that the bolt had wrecked havoc inside her, he can't tell, and neither can she, judging by the twisted look of abject suffering in her face. It's not pain, though, not physical pain she feels – it's mental.

She fears dying – and leaving her child without anyone to care for them.

More blaster fire sounds through the slave auction square as their eyes meet, and tears leak from the woman's eyes.

"Please," she says, her voice shaking with fury and fear and so many emotions Obi-Wan hopes he will never feel. "I don't think I can get up again. He doesn't have a slave chip yet – you can get him out of here, and they will never find him - _please_."

She holds the bundle to Obi-Wan, and what can he do but accept it? It's lighter than he expected, smaller – the baby can't be more than a month or two old, far, _far_ too young to be parted from his mother. The baby is crying in earnest now, wringing tiny arms in the cocoon of ragged cloth, little face scrunched up in misery. Obi-Wan stares at them, breathless and speechless with the sudden weight of _responsibility_ suddenly over him – and then the child's cries invite trouble.

A slaver with a blaster in hand and vicious, furious look on his face rounds the corner. "Trying to run, are you –" the slaver snarls, lifting his arm, his weapon. The barrel is already smoking, from all the shots taken – all the slaves killed.

Obi-Wan holds the babe to his chest with one arm, pressing gently to keep them secure – his other is already holding a lightsaber. Force guides his block and Obi-Wan barely feels anything as the blaster bolt aimed at them reflects back from his blade, and right between the slaver's brow.

The woman on the ground gasps at the light, staring up in wonder, as Obi-Wan stands. His Master might disapprove, the Council may give him another warning, but his path is clear now, and the Force _rings_ with his purpose. Against his neck, the baby draws a hitching breath and then quiets down, almost as if feeling it, waiting for it.

Obi-Wan stands. "I'm going to end this," he says quietly, holding the babe safe and secure against his chest, his lightsaber in front of them in perfect block to protect them both.

It's a bloody fight, and many die – many by Obi-Wan's hand, by his saber. He can't bring himself to regret a moment of it.


	3. Desmond and Baby Ezio (And Federico)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted on tumblr by whatnowait, mb-00, bladeangelx, aniseandspearmint, thefringeperson (and probably others): Desmond and baby Ezio

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for blood, murder, major character death, and completely messed up timeline

Desmond is hyperventilating and maybe panicking and most definitely _fucking pissed_.

The Auditore house is a goddamn wreck. Abstergo's little time travelling hit squad had done little to keep their actions quiet – and why would they, considering their messed up mission. They're already changing the history of the last _500 years_ , what's little noise and chaos in the middle of their past changing shenanigans, right? It's not like anyone in this time has the know how to realise that the weaponry used to _massacre_ the whole family were impossibly advanced, really.

If Desmond is going to get his hand on whoever came up with this fucking plan, he will have some damn questions to them.

"There's someone here!" a voice – in modern, or rather _future_ English – calls out, as Desmond hides behind the corner.

"A guard maybe?" another English voice answers.

"Find and eliminate them – well make it look like it was the Auditore that did it."

There's five of them – a five man band of time travelling lunatics, off to change the world. Desmond roughly knows where they are, but for all his adventures in Ezio's memories, he doesn't know this house – it's another place from before the Villa, and the layout is a complete mystery to him. So, he can't say where they are, or which way they might be coming, or what – fuck.

Hidden just behind the corner, Desmond calms his breathing and listens – there, footsteps, not particularly quiet all things considered. A gun barrel comes into view before the guy himself does – and by then it's too late. Desmond moves, quick and brutal, one hand grabbing the gun and pushing the barrel aside – another going for the guy's neck just under the helmet. Snick, and the blade goes right in, just under the edge of the skull, into the spine at a perfect angle to sever it.

Desmond grabs the guy's assault rifle before he collapses onto the floor – and seriously, they brought _assault rifles_ into the _renaissance_ , who came up with this plan? Spinning the rifle around, Desmond swings the thing over his shoulder – he'd use knives as long as he could, the rifle would be a last resort weapon only – and then he sees it.

Just outside, in the hallway where the gunman had come from, there's a door open just a little – and through that door Desmond can see a little kid, watching him with wide open eyes.

 _Federico_ , Desmond knows – and behind him there's a crib. Ezio, Claudia, or Petruccio – considering how young Federico is, though… probably Ezio.

Desmond blinks at the kid staring at him and then looks to where the other gunmen are. Then, making a split decision which is probably going to get him killed, Desmond grabs the rifle – he's going to end this _quickly_ and he's going to get the kids out.

"Hide," he says in Italian to the kid as he passes him by. "Hide, and stay very quiet."

Whether Federico listens to him or not, Desmond doesn't know – he can't hang around to make sure. He has guys to kill and no time to waste.

It's a messy, noisy, all around stupid affair – and in the middle of it he runs into four bodies. A servant is first, a woman in an apron with a line of bullet wounds across her chest – the next is Maria Auditore, her face frozen in look of horror as she lies there, in a pool of her own blood. Giovanni is not far from her, still holding a knife – it's bloody, so he managed to get some revenge, before getting gunned down by weaponry even the best of Assassin armour could do anything against. Desmond gets an uncomfortably long look at him, taking cover behind the corner he'd fallen against as he takes down the gunmen, one after another. In Giovanni's honour, Desmond takes his knife and uses it to kill the last gunmen, throwing the knife through the hall and into the guy's throat.

He is then left in an ungodly mess of futuristic assassins, who'd murdered a historical _assassin family_ , with all sorts of future weaponry strewn about the damn place – and with two survivors. The only bit of luck here is that both kids are far too young to understand anything about what had happened – and that can't really be called luck.

"Fuck," Desmond whispers, looking over the bodies, the weapons – the history, utterly derailed by Abstergo's stupidest plan to date. Go back in time, and derail all of assassin history at a crucial point of history and _development of future scientific understanding of the world_ , what could go wrong? "Fuck, fuck, _fuck_."

He ends up gathering all the explosives the future assassins have on their persons, before piling up all the bodies together and rigging them to blow – the best way he can think to deal with all the futuristic weaponry. Then, with a remote trigger in his pocket, Desmond pulls on one of Giovanni's coats, and goes back to the kids.

Federico stares at him like the devil, and Ezio is crying in his crib, wailing into the bloody silence that had followed all the gunfire. Neither of them take it well when he collects them up, but Desmond can't wait for them to calm down. The noise might've already alerted someone to investigate, and he can't risk contaminating the timeline more than it already has been.

"It's okay, it's okay, I'm going to get you out of here," Desmond babbles feverishly while carrying the crying, writhing kids out of the house. "I'm going to make sure you're okay –"

"Mama, mama, _mama_!" Federico screams against his shoulder, fighting every step of the way and Ezio just _wails_.

Desmond grits his teeth, feeling tears gathering in his eyes, but he doesn't let go of them. They're both so _small_ – Federico can't be even two yet, and Ezio is just a little older than a newborn, neither of them have the strength to fight him. It feels horrible, all of it, and their cries are _ear-splitting_ , but there's no choice.

The moment they're far enough away, Desmond crouches down to get one hand free before taking out the remote, and hitting the switch, not daring to wait a moment longer. The explosion that rocks the city of Florence would probably go into history, another bit of fuck up in already growing cluster, but at least it quiets Federico down, as he stops to stare in horrified fascination at the cloud of smoke, pillowing over the rooftops. Ezio though just keeps on crying.

"I'll take care of you," Desmond promises, more desperation than confidence in his voice. "I swear – I'll make this right."


	4. Desmond and Baby Anakin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted on tumblr by delicioushologramperson; I never saw a Desmond raise Anakin before

Desmond is… pretty sure he just popped into existence. That's at least how it feels like – like there was at first this yawning void of nothing, and he'd been there for pretty much forever, and that was… it was what it was, neither bad or good, just a sort of existence. Then, suddenly, with no warning, pop, he's a person again with arms and legs and skin which grows hot and sweaty under the suns.

Two suns, too. That feels almost like… irony.

Standing there for a moment, marvelling his own physicality, Desmond looks up at the two suns, and then down to the sandy ground, and then at all the stuff in between. There's a lot of stuff in between – houses and beings, people and animals. A sandy town with sandy streets and a layer of sand covering every inch in between. And no one noticed Desmond popping into existence, too busy running their chores, haggling for their purchases fighting each other over past deals that went sour.

"Hm," Desmond hums, rubbing a hand over his throat – he's got a voice box again, that's neat. Then he feels someone tugging at one of the pointed tips of his robe hems, and looks down.

There's a kid, maybe somewhere between one and two years of age, looking up at him with wide eyes and a look of utter trust on their baby face. There's sand in the kid's blond hair and smear of something that looks like maybe fried blood, maybe oil, on his face, and his clothes are ragged and dirty.

Desmond blinks, glances around for anyone who this kid might belong to, and then looks down again. "Hello," he offers, and crouches down. "You lost, kid?"

The kid says nothing, shifting his grip to Desmond's belt instead, little fingers clutching onto the spikes and spirals that surround the Assassin Brotherhood's insignia. There's dirt under the kid's little fingernails, and how shiny clean the belt buckle is makes it painfully obvious how little this kid has been washed.

Desmond gently pries the kid's hands off so that he won't hurt himself on the sharp edges, and in return the kid takes a death grip on his fingers, moving into Desmond's space with obvious intent of climbing into his lap. Bemused, Desmond lets him, winding an arm around the kid to keep him from falling, and with satisfaction the kid settles. Then, with a dirty finger, the kid points.

Desmond looks up. The kid is pointing down the sandy streets – and there's _still_ no one looking for the kid, no one looking at them, no one doing _anything_. A strange dude in white robes just grabbed a random kid in the middle of the street – or got grabbed by him, but that wouldn't hold in court of any law – and apparently no one here gives a shit.

"That way?" Desmond asks, and the kid nods. "Alright, that way we'll go."

With the kid held against his armoured chest, Desmond stands and then sets forth the way the kid points, tugging his hood up to shield himself for the sun, and then throwing his cape over the kid to do the same to him. The kid settles against his chest, fingers scratching at the leather covered armour, only looking up to point Desmond the right way.

Together they walk halfway through the town, and Desmond counts about twenty, thirty species of people and animals which none of them belong to earth, quietly wondering where the hell is he and what he is doing.

"Don't suppose you have a name, kid?" Desmond asks, looking down to the kid.

The kid doesn't answer, sticking a dirty thumb into his mouth and insistently pointing ahead. Desmond shakes his head and continues forward, idly checking what armaments he has. A mix of Ezio's, Altaïr's and Connor's weapons, it feels like. Two swords, a tomahawk, more throwing knives than he knows what to do with, rope darts, bombs and more bombs and just a few more bombs to make up the difference, a bow and a crossbow and daggers…

Whoever spun him into existence just covered him with weaponry, huh, Desmond thinks, checking his bracers quickly – one of them has a hook blade, the other has a pistol. Nice. He's probably heading into a battle then. Maybe a war. Alright.

"I hope you know what we're on about, kid, because I have no idea," Desmond says and the kid points silently ahead – to a tall, domed structure of sand stone and white plaster, with armed guards standing by the entrance, and insignias of someone important hanging in flags above the entrance.

Even without Eagle Vision, Desmond can tell this is a _lair_. With Eagle Vision, he can tell that there's a lot of people to kill inside – and lot of people to save, their shapes drawn in gold of importance.

And the kid in his arm is just _blazing_ in gold, so much so that whatever aura Desmond himself has, it's completely covered by the kid's glow.

"Huh," Desmond says, looking at the kid, shifting his cape enough to see the kid's face. The toddler looks up at him. "You summoned me here, huh?"

The kid reaches up with a dirty little palm and pats his cheek. Then he points to the house – which Desmond now somehow knows is Gardulla the Hutt's Palace - and mumbles around the thumb, " _Mama_."

Ah. Kid with godly powers with a mom in trouble. That'd do it, Desmond reckons. Wonder how the kid got out, though – Mama helped him escape maybe. Definitely not a situation where any kid would want to end up alone, or without a defender. What it says about the kid that the thing he summoned to protect him is an Assassin that's just _bristling with weaponry_ , Desmond isn't sure, but… the palace is _full_ of targets. So there's that.

"Alright," Desmond says, takes out a pair of throwing knives with his one free hand, and turns to the guards. "Let's go get Mama, then."


	5. Desmond and Cloned Baby Ancestors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompted by daretorhyme on tumblr: Revive Ezio, Altair, Connor, ~~Clay~~ , and others all as babies and Desmond ~~is a very tired kindergarten teacher~~.

Desmond is still dripping fluid as he finally finds a computer with enough access to whatever database runs the damn place to figure out what the hell is going on. Waking up in a huge scifi-esque tube of saline and whatever else was floating in the thing was kind of indicative that whatever it was, it was probably not good – never mind the fact that he was hooked by half dozen IVs pumping blood out and fluids in. As far as waking up from what he guesses was yet another long coma… yeah, not his favourite, not by a long shot, and something to explain what the hell happened would be _greatly_ appreciated.

His Eagle Vision is spazzing in and out, but thankfully it only makes hacking into the network that much easier, the glowing keys telling him what to press and what to click. There he comes to the Regenesis project, the EV-Transplant project, the ISU-enhancement project and the conclusion that Abstergo had upped their game on human experiment.

The Animus project has a new head, it turns out, and she doesn't care one jot about the Pieces of Eden or the history of Assassins and Templars – what she's into is the conclusion Vidic had sidled along, but never fully drawn. The fact that there are people out there with literal super powers – with psychic abilities, with _clairvoyance_ and who knows what else. What had been for Vidic just a side note in the search for the Pieces of Eden, for this woman it's her life's goal. Humans, with _psychic abilities_. And what she wanted to do was turn those powers into a marketable _something_ to change history forever.

And to that end, she'd claimed Desmond's remains – to pump his DNA out of him, to produce something with a market value out of him. The end goal was a treatment, a pill or radiation or whatever, that would give people these abilities. There were governments out there who would pay _billions_ even for a one telepath, empath, whatever she managed to produce, and she was damn determined to get there.

But she wasn't there yet – the program was still in the prototype phase. And the _prototypes_ …

"Oh, you sons of bitches," Desmond mutters, wiping his eyes clear from the fluid still leaking from his hair and then lifts his head. He'd knocked out the two scientists working on him, but knowing what they'd done… yeah.

Desmond grabs a scalpel from nearby, and goes to finish the job before taking their clothes, using one of their shirts to wipe down as much as he can before pulling the rest on. He probably wouldn't pass for a worker, but hell, at least he wasn't airing his privates to the world.

Taking their phones, their key cards and just in case their pens too, Desmond checks the facility map from the computer and heads out.

Twenty seven scientists and up to fifty other personnel, from cleaning staff to security. Not all of them are guilty of the serious crimes against humanity here, but most are. Chances are he wouldn't be able to take out even quarter of them before getting shot down, so Desmond doesn't even try, sneaking around instead while trying to find the right room, one marked with _Incubation_.

There's a nurse there, moving between pods and checking for vitals, marking everything down on a tablet. Desmond checks around with Eagle Vision, but the facility doesn't have cameras – it has motion and heat sensors, but they hadn't wanted to risk any footage ending up as evidence should their little project leak. Good for him, Desmond thinks, and then checks the woman.

Red. Yeah, he figured – considering how many of the prototypes had been _exterminated_ for failing to live up to standard…

"Tut tut," the woman murmurs to one of the prototypes. "No sign of progression whatsoever, that's not good, that's not good at all. You have to –"

Desmond doesn't wait to see what the kid _has to_ , sidling up to the woman and cutting her throat with the scalpel. She makes a terrible noise, as she falls over, and Desmond throws her aside, out of the way.

There are three pods – three of god knows how many. Inside there are few basic things – blankets, pillows, no toys, no way out, just a soft surface to sit or lie upon, and a glass window to interact with their makers. The kids inside aren't all the same age – one is slightly older, three at most, the others are somewhere between one and two, old enough to move around and almost stand.

They look at him, all with glowing golden eyes, so familiar, and immediately they react, eyes widening, hands reaching for him, one of them making urgent, " _ah, ah, ah_!" sounds while the oldest of the three clambers to his little toddler feet, coming up to squish his face against the glass. They can see he's on their side. They can tell he's an ally – which means the people they've had to interact before… haven't been.

Fuck.

"Yeah," Desmond agrees shakily, pressing his hand on the glass, eying them with Eagle Vision too – all golden, all important. Fuck yeah they're important. "Yeah, I'm going to get you out."

Quickly Desmond checks the readouts of the pods. The oldest is based on Altaïr's DNA, with all of it filtered out of Desmond's to produce as perfect a copy as possible. The second oldest is based on Connor, and he's the most quiet, the one the nurse had been giving her warning to. The last, the youngest, is Ezio's near perfect clone, and he's the one making the most noise. Of course.

It was the most success Abstergo's new Animus program had gotten in reproducing Eagle Vision – by remaking people who already had it. They were even in talks of producing a number of clones to train and eventually sell out as super soldiers. Assassin's had always been the best killers around, so… they would make one hell of an army, surely. Even ten clones of Ezio would decimate an army.

Desmond breathes in and out and then cracks the pods open. Altaïr's clone reaches him first, stumbling out of the pod and hugging Desmond's knees. The others follow slower, clumsier – Desmond has to catch Ezio's clone before he can fall over. Connor's clone just comes over, takes hold of his stolen lab coat hem, and looks up at him expectantly.

"Yeah," Desmond says again and crouches down, lifting Ezio's clone to his lap and putting an arm around the others. "I'm going to get you somewhere safe and then I'm going to raze this place to the ground. How does that sound?"

" _Bah_ ," Ezio's clone says against his chest while Altaïr's clone tries to worm his way under Desmond's stolen coat. Connor's clone just holds on a little tighter, his little face set and serious and expectant.

Desmond takes that as a yes and takes a moment to think about the logistics of getting the three out of there. There's probably no time to waste, so he goes with the easiest and just lift's Altaïr's clone up and to his shoulders. "Hold on," Desmond says, trying not to wince at how tightly little hands grab at his still wet hair. Then he lifts Ezio's clone up to rest against his chest before winding an arm around Connor's clone to lift him up to his hip, before standing up.

His hands might be full and fighting like this would be impossible, but his mind is set. "Here we go," he says to the kids, holding them tight. "Hang on – I'm getting you outta here."

And nothing is going to stop him, absolutely _nothing_. 


	6. Obi-Wan and Baby Desmond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted on tumblr by kine-iende: ...Obi-wan with Baby-Desmond?

It wasn't what Obi-Wan was there to do. Aacee was an old world with eons of complicated history and culture, and what went on in their black markets wasn't supposed to be any of his business. What was his business is helping the system negotiate a tricky situation concerning a recently established hyperlane route that threatened to destabilise the planet's frankly concerning economy.

Aacee didn't trade in any currency that the Republic used – they dealt in DNA and blood samples, and the sudden influx of thousands of outsiders using Aacee as a pitstop on one of the longest hyperlanes in that quadrant of the galaxy, well. It had quickly flooded the carefully balanced trade-market with an _incalculable_ amount of fresh new _currency_. And it didn't help that Aacee possessed some of the rather disturbing amount of wealth, which they didn't see as wealth...

Already a wealthy Core World businessman had traded some ten thousand blood samples for quite a deal of local metals and minerals – which he'd then gone on to make enormous profit with. On Aacenian side, the injection of so many fresh new DNA samples into their carefully balanced market…

In the words of the Grandmaster of their governmental Order, they were heading into a Blood Recession. 

Obi-Wan had mediated negotiations dealing with various valuable resources before, but literal blood money was new to him. The Aacenians even had money with blood in it, transparent hard flimsy chips with a dot of red liquid preserved inside.

But that wasn't the issue here – the issue is that while investigating various local guilds trying to disrupt the hyperlane situation for their own gain, Obi-Wan had run into…

He's not quite sure what he's run into. But he would know those eyes anywhere. Sith yellow and _sharp,_ and looking at him like their owner could see his every weakness and knew exactly where to stick the lightsaber. There's Force, dark, murderous Force, glowing in those eyes.

And they're in the face of a toddler, sitting inside a glass display in one of the underground gatherings of local black blood markets – with people looking at the display like he's a great valuable.

"A perfect reconstruction," the host of the event says proudly, while the toddler frowns at him. "It took combining more than eighty bloodlines to bring the DNA together in full, but it's 99.8% accurate to the Original Sample. Subject 17, the very first tradable Memory donor, recreated as perfectly as modern sciences can manage."

There's a round of enthusiastic applause, and then… an auction. Obi-Wan listens in a growing horror as the Aacenians vie for the ownership of the child, and what they're musing is by far worse than what they're already doing.

"A near pure version, oh my – I suppose I will let him grow a little before I begin harvesting," one murmurs.

"You could have a female clone made and then breed them…"

"What a marvellous idea!"

"I would be interestested in any of the organs, if it ever comes down to biopsying – bone marrow and brain cells especially –"

Through this all, the child just looks around with his Sith yellow eyes, radiating Force and quietly simmering in frustrated helplessness. Every now and then the child's eyes turn to Obi-Wan, and the Jedi could swear there's recognition in those cinder eyes. The child is a Force sensitive – enough so to recognise another Force sensitive on sight. And he's using the Dark Side of the force with a liberal, careless baby hand.

… while around him people are talking about draining his blood and making their fortunes off him, like he's an untapped gold mine, ready to be plundered.

Yes, Obi-Wan is very prompt and thorough in reporting the auction and calling the Guards on all of them – and then he's faced with the look the Grandmaster of the Order gives to the child, awed and distinctively _covetous._

"A near pure clone of the _Original Sample_ –" the Grandmaster breathes. "We could base a whole new economic tradition on his harvested blood!"

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to dash those hopes," Obi-Wan says firmly, while quickly claiming the child from the hands of eager attendants. "Under Republic law, this not only amounts to a clear case of slavery, but also abuse of a sentient youngling."

The child in his arms takes a grip of Obi-Wan's robes, staring up at the Grandmaster and radiating a calm sense of _bad man kill_ at Obi-Wan, who tries very hard not to react. It's not exactly in _words,_ but the intent is very clear.

"Knight Kenobi," the Grandmaster says, somewhere between exasperation and condescension. "You obviously don't understand how our economy functions –"

"No, clearly not, but I will be making a thorough study of it," Obi-Wan says firmly and then adds, "I'm also going to have to report this to the Senate. Do you know that under Republic law the trade of organs of _unwilling, unconsenting_ donors is quite illegal with very heavy ramifications? This includes blood."

"Not if the donors are clones, Knight Kenobi – I know the laws too," the Grandmaster says and goes to take the child from Obi-Wan. "I know our rights – and the clones we use in our economy have next to none."

The toddler makes a discontent noise, pressing closer to Obi-Wan. _Do not want. Death to bad man._

Obi-Wan gives the toddler a soothing little bounce, keeping him well out of arm's reach. "As a Force Sensitive youngling, however, this one does," he says.

The Grandmaster hesitates. "Force Sensitive –" he starts, and then his eyes widen.

"Yes – your black market cloners seem to have done the impossible and produced a Force Sensitive reconstruction of one of your ancient ancestors," Obi-Wan agrees as sweetly as he can, no matter how the idea worries him, and no matter how much murderous intent the baby radiates at him. "And you may trust me, Grandmaster, people will be _very_ interested in the process. It will bring quite the deal of publicity to your fine world – including, I expect, a thorough investigation by the Jedi Order."

It would also bring the planet into public consciousness, including their economic system, which would likely lead to further flooding of their market and its inevitable total destruction. Obi-Wan can't say he particularly cares anymore, knowing now what it was based on. 

The toddler looks up at him, sticks most of his fist into his mouth and thinks, _kill bad man?_

 _No, little one,_ Obi-Wan answers with sigh while the Grandmaster of Aacee sputters in indignation. _No killing today. Be calm, be at peace – bad people won't hurt you, I won't let them._

The toddler sighs, clearly put upon by this refusal, but settles against his side. _Kill bad man later,_ he projects and presses his cheek to Obi-Wan's chest, still chewing on his own fist. His next thought is more muddled and complicated, and amounts to _break all their toys._ Or maybe _dismantle their powerbase and overthrow the government_ , but Obi-Wan rather hopes it's the first one.

Either way, there's still a lot of work to be done in Aacee, and Obi-Wan is determined to do a good job of it, even if he has to do it while never letting the toddler out of his sight for the fear of seeing him kidnapped by blood-hungry Aacenians. And if he ends up forming a fledgeling Force-bond with a toddler _darksider_ despite the fact that he already has a padawan... well.

He'll deal with it later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Baby Desmond has only one thing in mind. 
> 
> Attendants in the Jedi temple learn very quickly to hide all the sharp objects from the murder baby.
> 
> He and Anakin's get on like house on fire and probably overthrow the Hutts together.


	7. Ezio and Baby Desmond, but this time it's also a Star Wars crossover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Technically unprompted outside view on Ezio and Baby Desmond in Star Wars universe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for original Jedi character pov and implied past mind control (Juno)

Everyday people come to the Jedi Temple to have their children tested – every day, thousands are disappointed. Be it the poor of Coruscant looking desperately for a better life for their children, or the deeply religious seeking to follow a calling they barely understand, or the wealthy thinking of bringing more influence to their families by the claim of Force in their bloodlines… There are many hopefuls. Few, sometimes none, find their place among the Jedi Order.

Amath is one of the Jedi tasked with the testing, and has been for more than twenty years – and she has seen it all. Devout religious order bringing forth their newest members as par course for their training – sometimes, those children proved Force sensitive enough to be offered training, sometimes they accepted it. Parents, confused and thrilled and scared for their children but trying to do their best for them – and then shedding bewildered tears at the Temple steps, when their guardianship came to an end. Once she saw a little one who marched their own way to the Temple, had themselves tested, and joined the order – with no guardian in sight. The will of the Force could be a powerful thing indeed.

Amath has also seen days, weeks, even months, when no such Force sensitive emerged. When people came and went, had their children tested, their charges, their sons and daughters, their sisters and brothers, and none proved themselves Force sensitive. And among the rejected there were many types too – some relieved, some hopeful, some so utterly convinced of the special nature of their offspring that they had to be removed from the Temple by the Temple Guards.

Amath has seen the many forms of disappointment and relief and confusion and sorrow – and sometimes, rarely, _blessedly_ , joy, as a child found their home among the Temple halls… or didn't.

It's at the end of a long day of nearly two thousand such hopefuls all turned away, when _he_ comes. And immediately, Amath feels it's going to be a tricky one.

The man wears most elaborate robes and armour over them, white and red and silver, with elaborate hood covering his head. Though ceremonious, she can't tell if it's religious – if it is, it's of no order she knows of, and she knows many. The weaponry the man carries makes the Temple Guards hold him back and question him, and at distance Amath watches the man speak to them from the shadow of his hood. Whatever the exchange is, it's a lengthy one, ending with the man hesitating at the Temple steps, bowing his head to send his face further in shadow as he thinks.

In his arms, covered by a slated cape of red and white, he holds something that Amath can tell is infinitely precious to him. The hooded man looks as though he might retreat with that precious burden, but from the shelter of the cape comes a little hand, pale and bare, to touch the man's face. Little fingers curl into the man's dark beard – and at last, the man submits to having his weapons confiscated for the duration.

Amath meets him at the entrance to the Halls of Selection, bowing her head. "I am Amath Nell," she says. "I hold the trials of selection here. Have you brought a youngling for us to be tested?"

"Yes," the hooded man says, his voice deep and soft, accented in a way she can't place. "I have."

"Then please, come this way," Amath motions for him to join him. "Do you know what the test entails?"

"… stories I heard varied," the man says, adjusting his hold around the child.

The child isn't trying to look beyond the shelter of the man's arms and cape, Amath notes – they simply rest against the man's chest. It could mean many things – usually children were wide eyed with wonder upon entering a building as big as the Jedi Temple, but it could vary with species, upbringing, and culture. She can feel nothing from the child – which is more worrisome.

Whatever the species and however young… the child is already shielding their mind to some extent.

"The test depends on the youngling tested," Amath says. "If verbal they can be tested for vision – if they can see beyond what their visual senses limit. If not, other tests are also usable. Is your charge verbal?"

"Sometimes, when he wants to be," the man muses and looks down. The child makes a quiet hum, in recognition, but nothing else. "Desmond is somewhat… lazy by nature."

"Lazy?" Amath enquiries.

The man smiles, and strokes his hand over the child's back through the cape. "Or perhaps indolent is better word for it. You have not asked my name, Master Nell. Why not?"

"It sometimes happens that the parents or caregivers of younglings prefer not to put their names on record, letting their charges start off on a clean slate within the order," Amath explains. "We do not ask. Also, my title is not Master – I am only a Jedi, neither a Knight, or a Master. You may address me simply as Jedi Nell, or Amath Nell."

"Ah, I apologise if I offended, Jedi Nell," Ezio says. "Your ways are new to me. My name is Ezio Auditore da Firenze – you may put me on record as Desmond's ancestor."

Ancestor? "If he succeeds in the testing and joins the order, I will do so," Amath promises, wondering what kind of culture the pair hail from. "There are files to be filled after, if you wish to add more information, concerning his parents, his home planet, and so forth. They may be left blank or filled to the fullest, as the caregiver sees fit."

"I will see to it to put down everything relevant," the man promises and sits down as Amath motions him to a couch, and goes to get the toys.

"You implied that Desmond can be verbal," Amath says, taking a seat on the opposite couch. "So I will begin with the picture test. Would the little one please show himself?"

Ezio murmurs something down to the child in language Amath doesn't know, and the little form he's sheltering squirms to shift in his hold. The cape shifts, and what reveals itself is a fairly average looking human toddler, with tuft of dark hair and bright amber eyes, peering up at Amath.

"Hello little one," Amath says, and holds up the deck of cards. "I am going to show you some pictures without showing them to you – do you think you can tell me what they are?"

The little boy sits on Ezio's knee, holding onto the edge of the man's cap, and looks up at him for guidance. "Go on – it's alright, I made sure of it," Ezio murmurs, stroking strong fingers over the toddler's dark hair. "These are good people."

With a huff the boy looks down and then fixes on a determined, if somewhat mutinous expression, and Amath holds the first picture – generic image of a spaceship. The boy says nothing to it, but he makes a sort of noise reminiscent to spaceship taking off, and enhances it with a hand gesture, imitating of something flying

Amath smiles, and switches to the next picture – a flower. The boy tilts his head a little, thinking, and then puts both wrists together, fingers imitating the petals of a plant. Behind him, Ezio chuckles warmly.

Desmond gets every image right, and doesn't speak a word to explain them, coming up with elaborate hand gestures for each picture – honestly, it seems as though coming up with the gestures takes more effort than seeing the pictures.

Her curiosity peaking, Amath sets the cards down. "Lets try something else," she says and takes out one of the many soft balls in her box of toys. "Desmond, do you think you could take this without touching it?"

The boy blinks at the ball in her hand and then looks up to Ezio for guidance. This time the man says nothing, and the boy frowns, turning to look at the ball again. The toy doesn't so much as twitch in Amath's hand.

So, the boy has awareness in the Force, and impressive mental shields for a toddler, certainly – but no innate talent in telekinesis. Well, no matter, few so young do. The fact that the child has shields is concerning, but also indicative of potential mental talents.

"Well, that's quite alright," Amath says and puts the ball away. "I would like to try one more thing, if you don't mind," she addresses Ezio. "Desmond seems to have some mental abilities – I would like to test him with a gentle telepathic touch – nothing that will harm him, I will not so much as enter his mind, but I would like to tell if he is capable of feeling other's mind trying to connect with his."

Ezio peers at her from under the beaked hood, and for a moment it seems as though his eyes gleam, so intense is the gaze. He too, Amath suspects, has some sensitivity to the Force – and it's naturally through a sharp sense of vision. "Very well," the man says. "Go ahead."

She barely even begins, before Desmond reacts, making a face at her and kicking his feet – and slamming those mental walls down in front of her. It is _incredibly_ concerning – if the boy wasn't so content in Ezio's care, and if he did not so easily look for the man's guidance, Amath would have feared the worst. No child with a kind childhood has such walls –worse yet, they tell of a history of mental invasions the boy had taught himself to shield himself from.

"Desmond is strong in the Force," Amath says quietly. "I am sorry for the implication of this question but – you are not the boy's original caretaker, are you?"

Ezio says nothing for a long moment. "It's – complicated. But no, not quite," he agrees, and strokes the boy's hair again while Desmond leans back against his armoured chest, sighing heavily. "You feel his mental defences, I assume?"

"Yes," Amath agrees, trying not to judge.

"Hm," Ezio hums and the boy makes a quiet noise, tugging on the man's fingers. "Desmond was – manipulated by the mind of another. It was some time ago, but such things linger."

That is even _more_ concerning. "… yes, I suppose they would. Can you elaborate on what happened?" Amath asks slowly.

"No, I was not present – I only know that it happened, and that it was traumatic," Ezio says quietly and looks down at the boy and the boy looks back – and the communication there is so clear to see that Amath suspects there's something of a bond between them, a fledgling Force-bond.

"You share his abilities, don't you – you too are a Force sensitive?" Amath asks, watching them closely.

The man smiles and it's not a very humble smile. "In a manner of speaking," he agrees and then clears his throat. "Does Desmond have a place in your order?"

The Force-bond, if it is there, might prove some difficulty for the boy, but… "… yes, he does," Amath says and stands up. "Whether or not he _belongs_ here is another question – only time can tell that. Not all younglings thrive in the Temple environment. Not all of them are suited for it."

"If that turns out to be the case, I will of course return to retrieve him," Ezio says and rises as well, lifting the boy up and against his chest, his hands finding places to hold him with the casual ease of a practiced parent. "Now – there were forms to fill?"

"Yes, right this way," Amath says, wondering what the forms would reveal, and motions him to follow.

In the end, what goes down on those forms is more confusing than anything. The world Ezio writes down is not on the database – perhaps a local name for a world filed under a different galactic designation on Temple archives? Both of them Ezio marks as Near-Human, which could mean anything. Desmond, according to Ezio, has no other family.

There is a place on the forms for former religious affiliations and cultural background. On it, Ezio draws a symbol that is reflected on his elaborate silver belt buckle, and nothing more.

Ezio's parting words to Desmond would linger in Amath's mind for many days.

"I'm sorry I can't bring you with me, there is too much I have to do now. You will be safe here, and if that ever changes, I will come for you," murmured gently against the toddler's hair as the boy clutches onto the man's hood and whimpers. "Always remember the Creed, and you will be fine."

Desmond whines when Ezio hands him over to Amath, but the boy doesn't cry, doesn't reach for him – only watches him go. Ezio retrieves his many weapons from the Temple guards, and without a backwards look he leaves. Desmond watches until he's completely out of sight, and then sighs and looks up at Amath. And still he's shielding his emotions, though visibly distressed, he's hiding it in Force.

What a peculiar, worrisome child, with a peculiar, worrisome guardian.

"You'll be alright," Amath promises, privately making a mental note to research the Creed – Mandalorians have such things, perhaps the archive would have something on it. "Come – time to meet your crèche."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had this mental image of Ezio at the Jedi Temple and also the idea of him set loose upon Star Wars Universe makes me happy. Also I can't decide whether Desmond would enjoy the chill life of meditation interspersed with INTENSE LIGHTSABER FIGHTS... or if he would peace out from Jedi Order before long because awkward cult background, and that's an interesting dilemma to me. So yeh.


	8. Chap 6 continued

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by kine-iende on tumblr: any chance for a snippet how Cody would deal with little darksider!Desmond from chapter 6 of Badass with a baby? he would be around 10 then, I believe

"Master Obi-Wan, time it is. Your reservations this Council has heard, but still final our decision is," General Yoda says in the recorded message, bowing his head slightly. "Difficult the path ahead you is, but confidence in you we have. No one better suited to this task there is. Rise to the challenge you must and, believe this council does that succeed you will."

Beside Cody General Kenobi folds his arms, looking deeply troubled. Cody straightens his back, mentally preparing to face whatever challenge they would throw at the 212th – or to the 7th Sky Corps, whichever this concerned. They had gone through repairs, their stores had been filled, he'd just finished refilling their ranks from latest losses, so they were in a good position for a difficult mission… so as long it didn't turn out this mission the Jedi Council had in mind wasn't a solo mission meant for General alone. And by Force, the Generals should by now know how Clones felt about _those_.

On the hologram General Yoda draws a breath and then nods. "Young Miles, it is. Take him on you must," he says and adds wryly, "You _must_ , for leave the temple he already has despite our objections – come to you he will, whether this Council wills it or not. So will it this council must."

Kenobi's expression does a complicated little twitch before he lets out a little, "Oh," of heavy wry realisation. "I _see_."

Cody glances at him uncertainly and then Yoda continues, finishing his message with. "Reach you young Miles will soon, I'm sure. Prepare you should yourself. May the Force be with you."

"Stars, I can only hope," Kenobi murmurs and sighs as the message cuts off with the High General's bow, leaving them staring at a darkened holotable.

Cody straightens his back. "Sir," he says. "A hostile?"

Kenobi snorts, and shakes his head. "No, not exactly," he says and sighs even heavier. "Please inform the admiral to expect an unmarked Jedi star fighter to drop out of hyperspace at any moment. I wouldn't want our men to shoot down my new padawan."

"Sir," Cody says with some alarm. "I - I thought you said you wouldn't take another Padawan?"

Kenobi sighs again. "Couldn't, Commander, not wouldn't. I had hoped Jedi Shadows could persuade that boy to their side before it came to this, but… I suppose I have been spoken for ever since I met him on Aacee. Oh well. Now, excuse me Commander, I will have to go and prepare my quarters for a permanent guest. Will you inform the Admiral?"

"Yes, sir, of course," Cody says and sends a worried look after the Jedi, as Kenobi heads off, his head bowed and his steps a bit brisker than usual. Whoever Miles is, it seems they're just as troublesome for Kenobi as Skywalker. Guess he better inform the men, too – just in case.

* * *

Waxer and Boil are of course _elated_ about the idea of having a little Jedi Commander of their own. "Not that having a kid around would be, you know… great," Waxer says awkwardly. "Stars know this isn't the place for kids. But still – a little commander. Do you know how old he is? What species? What's his name?"

"You know it's going to be _Kenobi's_ kid, right?" Wooley says, amused.

"Well, _yeah_ , but just look at Tano and the 501st – she's as much theirs as she is Skywalkers," Waxer says, grinning and then looks back at Cody. "What do we know about the kid?"

"The only thing I know is that apparently he stole a Jedi fighter and decided to take things into his own hands as far as this whole apprenticeship goes," Cody says wryly. "The Council had to approve his padawanship under Kenobi after he'd already taken off. Kenobi wasn't happy but he also wasn't surprised, so he's probably been expecting it on some level for a while."

"I like this kid already," Boil says with a snort. "When he's gonna be here?"

"No idea," Cody says. "But it looks like he might end up being a handful – so we're going to support Kenobi as much as we can, as much as he allows us to, in keeping the kid safe. That means assigning a squad under him for protection – "

"I volunteer as squad leader!" Waxer says immediately, actually putting up his hand eagerly, and everyone snorts.

"Right, _great_ , permitted. Waxer's gonna lead the Padawan Squad. Pick your men and stick to the kid so as long as Kenobi doesn't say otherwise," Cody says, shaking his head. "We know the sort of osik Kenobi has to deal with on a daily basis, let's try to make sure the kid stays alive through it. Also, standing order to everyone in the 212th – if you spot a Sith and the kid's there, no matter who it is and no matter if you're in Padawan Squad or not, you grab the kid and go."

"Yes sir," everyone answers in one voice.

"Good," Cody says. "Let's get ready to welcome our new baby commander."

* * *

The new baby commander appears without a warning. No one sees him coming, not even the deep space scanners – he just sort of… lands out of nowhere, setting up his stolen Jedi fighter right in the middle of their fighter bay and then climbing out of it without so much as announcing his presence. And then, while the clones tending to the various crafts in the fighter bay try to come up with something to do, the kid's already gone.

"Um, sir," Cody says, staring at the harried reports from one of the pilots. "I think your padawan is here?"

Kenobi looks up from the star maps and his eyes go a little distant as he searches the force. It takes a moment before he closes his eyes and smiles a little. "So he is," he says, shakes his head ruefully and turns to the map. "Inform the men that there's a human boy of approximate twelve years of age on board and tell them not to shoot him, please."

"Uh… yes sir. Shouldn't we go look for him, though?" Cody asks uncertainly, while quickly sending a message to all hands on board. "It's a big ship, full of… weapons. And grenades. And other things."

Kenobi shakes his head. "He'll be fine – he will want to explore first. He'll find us when he's done."

Cody gives him an uncertain look but as Kenobi seems fairly at ease, so, in the end, he too turns back to work. The question still sits at the back of his head. Kenobi worries and frets over Skywalker and Tano whenever they're near enough for him to do something about them, but with this kid, who's younger than Tano and fresh of the Jedi temple, he just… let's them go and explore a fully kitted war ship full of who knows what kind of dangers. For Force's sake, the ship doesn't even have safety railings.

He stays a little on edge as he works, and still manages to forget about the kid until he's suddenly there.

"Hey, Obi-Wan. Did you know you have a contraband smuggling ring on your ship?"

"Yes, there is one on every ship," Kenobi agrees and turns to look at the kid who just walks up to the room. "Hello Desmond. Didn't think to call ahead?"

The kid is – not particularly impressive looking. About the same size as a five, maybe six year old vod, with a mess of unruly dark brown hair that sticks every which way in curls, dressed in your usual Jedi tunics and tabards, the only variation being that his white tunic has a hood. Though he has a Jedi's utility belt with pouches and loops for tools, there's no lightsaber in sight and Cody gets a sudden sense of oncoming of doom – oh Force, not _another one_.

The boy looks around the command centre with interest. "You would've come up with new excuses or thrown yourself into another campaign and the Council would've tried to hold me back for another four months," he says and looks up at Kenobi, unrepentant, hands at his hips as he stares down – up – at the High General through his messy hair, and there's a glimpse of something there…

"I would have come to get you," Kenobi objects mildly.

Miles looks at him dubiously and shrugs. "Well, now you don't have to," he says. "I'm already here."

Kenobi shakes his head with an amused sigh and reaches forward with one hand, pushing the mess of hair out from covering Miles' eyes, revealing their vivid, golden gleam. "So you are," Kenobi says, peering at those eyes and then smiling slightly. "Well then, my young Padawan. I suppose you need a haircut. But first, introductions. Desmond, this is my Clone Commander, Cody. Cody, my new Padawan learner, Desmond Miles."

"A – pleasure," Cody says, staring at the kids eyes – Sith eyes. _Fuck_. "If you don't mind me asking, sir, where is your lightsaber?"

"Don't have one," the kid says and pulls up his sleeves, to show gleaming metal gauntlets around each arm. Tilting his hands back, he produces two short plasma blades, vivid red in colour, from each wrists. "I call them hidden lightblades. Neat, aren't they?" he asks, while Kenobi runs a hand over his face, sighing.

Cody clears his throat. "… yes, sir, very neat," he says faintly. Kenobi's new Padawan is a little baby Sith. Of course he is – what other type of Force user would be so insistent to get to Kenobi, except a Sith? And what other Jedi except Kenobi would the council shackle with a baby Sith, except Kenobi?

Well, at least with this one he wouldn't have to be picking up a dropped lightsaber on the sidelines of every other battlefield.

"You have a lot in common, actually, Commander," Kenobi says ruefully and ruffles Miles' hair as the boy stares at Cody hard, like trying to see into his insides. "Desmond is a clone too."

He's a _what_?

* * *

"So, uh… sir, can I ask… how…?" Cody tries, while watching Commander _call me Desmond_ Miles flipping around the training hall, while Waxer leads the Padawan Squad in an exercise to get a handle on the kid's abilities. Despite the fact that the kid's versions lightsabers are _attached to his arms_ and he can't do any spinning tricks with them, he's blocking all the fire thrown his way just as any other Jedi.

"How he came about and how he's a Jedi, despite being a darksider?" Kenobi asks.

"It is a little odd, sir," Cody admits.

"I Searched him, nine years ago. It was an accident, I was on an unrelated mission on a planet on the brink of economic disaster – and right in the middle of it I found a black market cloning ring, who were producing re-creations of the planet's ancient ancestors. Desmond is one of them – a clone of a man who lived hundreds of thousands, if not _millions_ of years ago," Kenobi says. "He's a near human with some level of genetic memory, and those memories put him firmly on the dark side at birth – and as much as we, the Jedi Order, have tried steering him on a lighter bath, those memories are very strong."

"… right," Cody says, not quite getting it. "And despite the fact you've let him… stay in the order? Even though he's basically a Sith."

"To be a Sith is a choice – for Desmond, it's genetic. It's hard to begrudge a child for how and what he was born as. There are many predatory species in the Jedi Order – Master Yoda's species is one of the apex predators of the galaxy, you know," Kenobi says, which makes Cody give him an incredulous look. The General chuckles. "No, it's true. Master Yoda's species is completely carnivorous with predilection towards eating the _young_ of other species, sentient or not. But he has risen above his biological urges, as have many others."

"Uh-huh," Cody says, a little unnerved. "And now you're going to train the kid to be a Jedi knight, hoping he'll do the same?"

"That's the idea. He's a born killer, with an ancient bloodline of assassins," Kenobi says somewhat sarcastically. "But he is not without control and he does have a sense of right or wrong. With training and hard work and not a little bit of determination, I think he can manage his lineage's memories and urges."

Cody folds his arms, watching the little commander whirl around Boil and trip him to the training mat, making an imaginary stab on the clone's neck with his un-lit light blade. "You're dead," the kid tells the clone cheerfully, pats Boil's cheek, and then jumps after another clone, all but stalking them across the training hall.

Judging by the looks of it – and the sounds of their cheering – the Padawan Squad adores their little commander already.

Kenobi hums, watching his student take down another clone. "Desmond does, however, have an ability we will need to watch out for. He's a visual clairvoyant, which lets him see people's allegiances and intentions on sight alone," he adds then, quieter. "He can tell enemies and friends apart at a glance."

"Sir?" Cody asks, hoping for a clarification. "That sounds… useful, actually." Though he had to suppose it depended on who those enemies actually were…

"His natural instinct in the face of enemies is to kill them," Kenobi admits ruefully. "The first time I met him, he was not yet verbal but he still managed to convey to me that we should kill the bad men around us. And overthrow their government."

"I… see, sir," Cody says and clears his throat. "I'll convey your worries to the Padawan Squad."

"Thank you," Kenobi says, sighing. "But mainly, he should never be left alone with politicians. _Especially_ not High Chancellor Palpatine."

"Oh?"

"Yes, he's been plotting to assassinate the man since he was three years old," Kenobi admits.

Cody gives the man an incredulous look and then looks back to the training squad, the last of whom goes down in a clatter with Padawan Miles on the man's back, bearing him down with all of his weight, both hands on his neck.

"And you're dead," the kid says, satisfied, and the _dead_ clones on the floor cheer.

"This is going to be a disaster," Kenobi admits, smiling fondly at his new, murderous Padawan.

"Yes, sir," Cody agrees, wondering what would happen when Kenobi's various Sith admirers – of whom the man has seriously too many of – would think when they found his new student was a little darksider too.

Nothing good, probably.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One day Desmond will lay his eyes on General Griveous and he will immediately decide he has to steal all of his lightsabers. He's gonna succeed at it too. And no he's not going to give them up afterwards.


End file.
